On Thursday I went to visit the Casino[69] of the Grand Duke. What struck me most there was a rock of pyramidal shape made of all sorts of mineral stones, the mass being composed of one fragment of each. From this rock a spring of water gushed forth and set in motion a great number of devices, water-mills, windmills, bells, soldiers, animals, hunting scenes, and many others of the same sort, all placed in a chamber inside. On Thursday I did not care to stay in the city to witness another horse race, so I went after dinner to Pratolino, which I inspected minutely for the second time, and, being requested by the steward of the palace to give my opinion as to the relative beauties of this place and of Tivoli, I said what I had to say without making any general comparison, but setting detail against detail, with the different things to be considered in each case, and letting now this place and now Tivoli have the advantage. On Friday to the shop of the Giunti, where I bought a collection of Comedies, eleven in number, and certain other books. I saw there Boccaccio’s will,[70] printed together with some lectures on the _Decameron_, which displays the amazing poverty into which this illustrious man must have fallen. He left some of his linen and bedding to his sisters and his other relatives, his books to a certain friar with the instructions that the legatee is to allow the use of them to any one who may demand the same. He made mention of everything down to earthenware and the meanest utensils, and arranged for his burial and masses. This is printed exactly from the original, which was written on parchment greatly injured and decayed. The courtesans here stand at the doors of the houses to attract lovers, just as those of Rome and Venice sit by the windows. They take their station at suitable hours, and may be always seen, some with large and some with small company, talking and singing in the streets. On Sunday the 2nd of July I quitted Florence after dinner, and, having crossed the Arno by the bridge, we left the river to the right hand, following its course nevertheless. We traversed a fine fertile plain, which produces the finest musk melons in Tuscany, but the best of these are not ripe before the 15th of July. Those grown at Legnara, three miles from Florence, are the best. Our road lay through a country for the most part level and fertile, everywhere studded with houses large and small, which made it seem one continuous string of villages. Amongst others we passed a charming place called Empoli,[71] the name of which seemed to me to smack of antiquity. Its site is most lovely, but I saw no sign of old times save a ruined bridge near the road which had an indescribable look of age.